


through the cities in the sky

by yamzy



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Anxiety, Humor, M/M, but not really, i mean i tried, i tried that too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-12 00:33:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9048244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yamzy/pseuds/yamzy
Summary: In which Victor is a musical genius who calls himself Cessa, and Yuuri is his biggest fan.Yuuri Katsuki has always believed that everything that existed and happened was all in accordance to a giant plan written by the combined forces of fate and the universe. The mistakes you’ve done, the people you’ve had—they’re all just little rests and notes that composed the song of your existence. However, this strange silver-haired boy seemed different. He had no idea who this boy was, but he knew that this boy wasn’t going to be part of his song. He was going to sing it.   [Or alternatively: Victor is a giant hipster who puts out pretentious covers of different songs that manages to hit Yuuri at the exact moments and he thinks he’s a genius for it.]





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was really intended to revolve around a song, so I don’t know what happened and how 9k words suddenly appeared. Anyway, the last part (slightly, but not really) is a songfic, featuring _We Are The Ones_ by Son Lux. (You can listen to it while reading the last part, if you want hehe.) Chapter title also came from the same song.
> 
> Also, I tweaked the age difference among the skaters. Phichit is 16, but Yuuri is only younger by a few months. Victor is more or less of Phichit’s age, if not a bit older.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own anything from Yuri on Ice; everything belongs to the amazing people behind it. :)
> 
> Title of this story came from BØRNS’ _Past Lives_.

_November 2008, Detroit_

Yuuri Katsuki ended his junior competitive figure skating career with three over-rotated spins; two quads that tragically turned into a triple and a double, respectively; and the single realization that despite all his training and hard work, he wasn’t at his best. He knew he could have done better—those jumps? He practiced them all almost daily for about six months. Granted, he never really nailed them 100%, but the effort has got to count, right? Maybe it was just the stress of traveling back and forth from Hasetsu to Detroit. Combined with the fact that Vicchan’s death was only two months ago, Yuuri was truly not in his best form. That had to be the reason for his failure, otherwise the only one to blame was himself and his skills as a skater. But . . . what if his disposition weren’t the problem—what if he just wasn’t good enough?

Feeling the throbbing ache looming deep in his head, Yuuri took a deep breath and shook his head. He shouldn’t think like this—he refused to. The moment he followed down that thought, he knew he was going to be stuck in that dark abyss for a long while, and it will be incredibly difficult to pull himself back together afterwards. Especially now without Vicchan. Wait a second, did he just blame his failure on his dog’s death? Now that just seemed off. He knew that it was perfectly rational that his performance was negatively affected by Vicchan’s passing, but contributing his loss on his dog just felt . . . _wrong_. He was supposed to be better that this—not better than grief, but better in a way that he would be able to transform that grief into something that would make Vicchan proud. But considering his performance, it wouldn’t even hurt Yuuri if the dog disowned him as his owner in front of his newfound friends in the afterlife.

The throbbing ache that usually signaled a headache revealed itself as the tears prickling in his eyes. He clenched his eyes shut, desperately trying to rein his tears in. His hands formed themselves into fists, clutching the coarse fabric of his jeans, as he took in shallow breaths to calm himself down. He couldn’t break down in the middle of a hallway inside the rink, not when there were reporters outside who could capture this exact moment and show how low he has become. But didn’t they already record his downfall earlier, every time he fell and spun too much in the ice? It wasn’t as if he didn’t hear the clicks of their cameras and the hurried typing on their phones after his every mistake. They were loud and clear to him, alongside the disapproving _tsks_ and defeated _oh nos_ from the audience.

Perhaps the only consolation of his entire experience was that some of his opponents didn’t bring their A game too. Even with his disastrous performance, he even managed to earn a bronze medal. But he knew that being good was different from having good competitors. He saw the disappointment behind the eyes of Giacometti and Leroy, the skaters who took home the gold and the silver, respectively. The competition had been a boring and unchallenging one, and Yuuri, after the disaster he displayed on the ice, didn’t deserve to stand on the podium alongside the two truly talented ones. 

Maybe some would say that, at the very least, he was better than the others that failed to snag a medal. However, he knew that he could brag about that. Some of his competitors were children new to competitive figure skating, first-time skaters in their very first event. Their loss could be chalked to their innate inexperience, one that Yuuri, in his last year in junior figure skating, did not have anymore. While a few of his other opponents were of the same age as him, seemingly veterans to the sport already, he knew that their losses were because of their lack of passion for the sport already. They were the ones who, similar to Yuuri, were competing in their final junior competition, but unlike him, were probably quitting the sport after. Them competing was basically just them saying “Let’s just get this thing over with”. However, as mentioned, Yuuri wasn’t like that—or maybe he should be. Perhaps he should just quit figure skating while it’s still early, go home to Hasetsu, and live a long and fruitful life running their inn—because clearly, he wasn’t good enough to continue this.

The tears freely escaped his eyes now, trickling down his face. He took his head in his hands, hunched over, trying to hide his face from the world. This was it. He hasn’t just dived and fallen into the abyss; he has settled down, built a house, and made himself comfortable down there. He wasn’t going to get out of it anytime soon, so it was better to just keep crying and stop pretending that he was okay. Because he wasn’t. He was as far from okay as he was from Japan right now. Where Vicchan, the only one who can keep him sane in moments like these, was. But he’s dead now. _Fuck._

“Hey, don’t curse,” a heavily accented voice said. Yuuri hadn’t realized he had said that last word out loud. He looked up and saw Celestino, his coach. The Italian man seemed annoyed, with his brow furrowed and his hands on his waist. Yuuri knew that this was only an act, though, as his coach was terrible in expressing his worry towards him. He also knew that his coach was spectacularly excellent in showing his disappointment, and that unfortunately for him, a dissatisfied Celestino was identical to a worried one. _Perfect._

His inner turmoil must have been written clearly on his face as his coach seemingly took pity on him and sat down beside him. The man raised his arm, as if he was going to put his arm around the skater, but dropped it, changing his mind. He instead fiddled with the end of his long hair, which was fastened into a long braid. (The Italian only did that for Very Important Occasions, and with the realization that he flubbed a Very Important Occasion made Yuuri sink even lower in his seat.)

The silence stretched itself too much, proving to be unbearable even for the normally stoic and impassive Celestino. “Yuuri . . .” he started, turning to his side to face his student.

Seeing his coach tiptoe around him and speak in a mild, hushed tone as if he were pacifying a volatile wild animal filled Yuuri with frustration, tore a larger hole in his carefully controlled façade (which was not wrecked to pieces, mind you), and buried him deeper in the abyss he was already in, if that were even possible. “Stop it, okay!” he snapped. His coach slightly jumped, noticeably surprised at his normally calm and composed student. “I know I messed up. I know I didn’t do well. I know that what I did out there—” Yuuri pointed wildly in no direction in the air, garnering a few curious looks from the people around them, “—showed how much I wasted your time in training! You probably don’t want to be my coach anymore. That’s fine. I get it. _I know I’m not good enough._ ” He choked on those last words. Feeling his tears were making their huge comeback, he closed his eyes, puffed his chest out, and trying to take in deeper breaths. However, he guessed that he wasn’t breathing as deeply as he thought, and probably looked like a dying fish. Or just hyperventilating. Or a hyperventilating dying fish that was flopping on its side, similar to how he was flopping earlier in the ice, disappointing everyone who ever tried to believe in him: his mom, dad, Mari, _Vicchan_ —

“Yuuri!” Celestino exclaimed, shaking him. “Stop! Get out of it. Get yourself out of it.” His coach now knelt down in front of him, his large hands on his shoulder. Gone was the stoic and composed coach that he came to know—the man in front of him was a frantic mess. Even his impeccable braid was starting to get loose, frizzing near his forehead, which was comically knotted in worry. His eyes were also comically wide, no doubt taking in his student’s sorry sight. Yuuri couldn’t help it—he laughed. Loudly. Enough to make the few people around them scamper away, probably in fear of the manic kid. 

“I’ll miss that shiny, shimmering, splendid hair of yours, Coach,” Yuuri remarked, with tears still in his eyes and a giant fake grin plastered on his face. “You never did tell me the secret behind that.”

“Oh, Yuuri . . .” his coach said softly. “This is all _au natural_.” Celestino smiled, albeit sadly, and for the first time since he became Yuuri’s coach, pulled him into a hug. And as if a dam broke, all of Yuuri’s unbridled emotions came out, letting him sob openly on his coach’s shoulder, without uttering a single word. 

Celestino took this moment to comfort the child, patting his back. “You are good, Yuuri,” he whispered to his student’s ear. “Of course, you can be better, but that doesn’t invalidate the brilliance you have now. We—” he stressed, making Yuuri smile, “—can always try harder to show that brilliance inside of you, okay? There’s always another chance; in fact, we have your senior debut to prepare for, right?” He released Yuuri from his hug and faced him, looking at him directly in the eye. “ _Right_ , Yuuri?”

Yuuri wiped the tears (and snot) off his face. “Yes, Coach,” he said, weakly. He cleared his throat and took a deep breath, facing his coach’s gaze head on. “Yes, Coach,” he repeated, this time more loudly. He tried smiling to assuage Celestino’s worry, and to think of it, maybe Vicchan’s too, wherever he might be. He couldn’t stay in the abyss much more longer. The familiarity of the crippling loneliness and despair might seem as a surprising comfort right now, but it wouldn’t get him any further. It wouldn’t make Vicchan proud.  
He didn’t want to guilt Vicchan in the afterlife for leaving his owner a blubbering mess behind. He had to be better, to be alright, to be Yuuri, once again. He had to be—

“Wipe that snot off your face, Yuuri,” a high-pitched, but still unmistakably male, voice said. Yuuri looked up, and saw his best friend, Phichit. “Yes, yes, I’m late and the competition’s over, but that doesn’t mean we couldn’t take a picture with your medal!” Yuuri smiled. He wasn’t right now, but he was going to be okay. He had to be.

 

“Oh my God.” Yuuri looked to the boy beside him. Phichit’s face was crumpled by a mixture of bewilderment and disgust. “Why is Ciao Ciao . . . saying ciao ciao to Veronica?” Phichit asked slowly, almost one word at a time, as if it pained him to utter each word. He pointed to Celestino, who was busy talking, no, flirting, with Jean-Jacques Leroy’s coach, Veronica. 

Yuuri shrugged. “Well, at least he’s trying to have fun,” he said. His and Phichit’s coach currently had his arm rested on the wall, in what looked like a serious attempt to appear casual. The lopsided grin, which at closer inspection seemed to be a sorry excuse for a cheeky smirk, tried to prove itself as a testament of the Italian man’s _coolness_. Yuuri couldn’t really blame Phichit for his reaction—the sight before them was disturbing, to say the least.

“How could he have fun w—wi-with . . . her?” Phichit exclaimed, stumbling over his words as he pointed to the woman Celestino was currently talking to. She seemed to be actively participating in the conversation, and returned the man’s smile easily, in a way that showed how being cool was effortless to her. It was unclear though whether that sweet smile and that coy look of hers were because of her genuine interest on the Italian, or merely because of her amusement. “She’s . . . Ve-ro-ni-ca,” Phichit said, enunciating each syllable of the woman’s name.

Yuuri smiled. Leroy’s coach was known amongst the skating circuit to be one of the most dedicated—and devious—coaches in the sport. Aside from her rigorous training in the rink, she was also remarkable in using her wiles _outside_ the rink, charming other coaches and skating insiders to further push her skaters towards the podium. Still, Yuuri decided to humor his friend. He faced the Thai boy, who was now downright glaring at the woman their coach was talking to. “So . . . what if she’s Ve-ro-ni-ca?” he asked playfully, repeating Phichit’s stress on the woman’s name.

Phichit practically spun around to face the Japanese skater. Shocked and scandalized, he gaped at Yuuri, who was trying to control himself from laughing. “What do you mean ‘what if she’s Ve-ro-ni-ca?’,” Phichit said, moving his head from side-to-side, appearing to imitate Yuuri earlier. However, the sheer force of it wasn’t akin to Yuuri anymore, but more of an exorcism. “You know exactly why she talks to other coaches!”

“To socialize?” Yuuri said, interrupting his friend from the incoming rant he was sure the Thai boy would launch into. He knew that it wouldn’t do anything except annoy the boy even more, fueling his tirade with more fury. Still, he found it funny, so he continued egging his friend on. “Maybe she just wanted to congratulate him. I mean, I sucked earlier, but I still got third place. She probably thought Celestino was magic.”

Even though it seemed impossible at first, Phichit’s jaw dropped even lower. “Are. You. Kidding. Me. Right. Now,” he deadpanned, neglecting to see the glimmer of mirth behind Yuuri’s eyes.

“Or maybe she thought Ciao Ciao’s hot and decided she wanted to _ciao ciao_ his _ciao ciao_ ,” Yuuri suggested. His best friend closed his eyes and shook his head. This was it. The famous Phichit Chulanont temper was finally going to be revealed.

“First of all,” Phichit started, his pointer finger in the air, stressing his point. “That doesn’t even make any sense.” Yuuri suppressed a snort; his laughter was getting harder to control. “Second of all, Ciao Ciao is not magic. It’s the idea even though you were terrible, so many others sucked more—now that’s magic.” Yuuri felt himself grimace. Now that stung quite a bit. He couldn’t blame Phichit though; he knew that once he started his tirades, he had a hard time stopping, even just to check on what he was saying. “Third—”

“Or maybe she wanted Ciao Ciao to _ciao ciao_ her _ciao ciao_ ,” Yuuri butt in, trying to inject humor before his friend said something hurtful again. He smiled at the Thai boy, although he knew his eyes betrayed the hurt he thought he had buried once again.

Phichit became frozen in his position, with his mouth still opened to speak, finger pointing in the air and face offering Yuuri an unimpressed look. He then closed his mouth and eyes, as if he were regrouping his thoughts. _Oh_. It seemed like Phichit has gotten the hint that he just hit a sore spot and decided to drop it. “What I’m saying is . . .” _Maybe not_. “. . . she’s probably trying to get into Ciao Ciao’s head,” he continued, more calmly. Seeing Yuuri not responding, he added, “. . . and steal all of our competition secrets!” Phichit grinned brightly; his rant has clearly lost its edge.

However, Yuuri found it hard to match up with his friend’s glee, and instead returned a cheerless smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He said nothing, but his silence was loud enough for Phichit to hear.

Phichit Chulanont, despite his brashness and volatile temper, was a good friend, and it was in his ability to read and understand Yuuri’s silences that made him deserving of that accomplishment. Hence, seeing the lost mirth behind his friend’s eyes and his struggle to keep it all in again, he threw one arm over the Japanese skater’s shoulder and pulled him close.

Yuuri let himself be hugged. While Phichit was capable of the huge, emotional, overly dramatic apologies (he once stayed overnight outside Yuuri’s room to apologize after leaving opened black paint and Vicchan free to roam inside the Japanese boy’s predominantly white room for three hours—what happened then shall never be spoken again), this wasn’t the time for it. There was no sense trying to make this into a huge issue, especially considering his attempts to bury it all in his memories. Yuuri knew that this was Phichit’s apology, and he was thankful for that.

“The only secret Ciao Ciao has is probably about his hair,” Yuuri remarked, finally meeting Phichit’s eyes.

Using the arm currently wrapped around the former, Phichit knocked his friend on the head. “Why are you so curious about Ciao Ciao and his hair? Is that some sort of fetish?” Lowering his voice, he added, “Is that a Japan thing?”

Yuuri snorted. “Isn’t that racist, Phichit?” Ignoring his friend’s grumbled apology, he asked, “Wait, why are you late?”

“Traffic.”

“The entire competition, including the preparations and the interviews afterwards, was probably around five hours!” Yuuri said. Seeing his friend’s reluctance to meet his eyes, he added, “Were you really in traffic for five hours, Mister I-Live-At-The-Dorms-Which-Is-Thirty-Minutes-Away-From-The-Venue?”

The Thai skater pouted. “Fine. I woke up late, okay?”

“Hungover?” Yuuri asked, grinning genuinely.

Phichit hit his friend’s head, harder this time. “That’s illegal.” And with the aura of someone who was absolutely lying, he said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Ri-ight,” Yuuri sing-songed. 

“I’m hungry. Aren’t you hungry?”

“Hungry? So, it wasn’t alcohol that you took, huh—mpft!” Any more attempt of talking from Yuuri was ultimately muffled by Phichit’s hand.

 

“Soooo . . . where were you really last night?”

“At my dorm room. Sleeping.”

“What kind of alcohol did you drink? I heard there were many kinds—”

“I was at my dorm room. Sleeping.”

“Did you drink beer? Are you going to be like one of those old uncles who drink beer midday with their huge bellies flopping arou—”

“Dorm room. Sleeping. You know, that thing you do where you have your eyes closed?”

“How ‘bout shots? Did you take shots off anybody? I heard that’s what—”

“There was even snoring involved, I think. Do you know what I dreamt about? Your mom’s katsudon . . . speaking of which, how’s your mom, Yuuri?”

“Or . . . was it pot? Come on, I won’t tell Ciao Ciao—”

“Yuuri!”

“Not pot, then?”

“I. Am. So. Fucking. Sorry. I. Slept. Through. Your. Performance.”

“You should be.”

“Come on. Come to think of it, at least that’s one less person sexually harassed by Giacometti on the ice.”

“Shut up. You know you’re searching for his performance on Youtube later.”

“For research!”

 

“No, but seriously, where did you go off last night?” Yuuri asked nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t just badgered Phichit earlier. He took an extra bite from his pretzel. It was best to savor his friend’s treat before the Thai skater ultimately ended their friendship anyway.

Contrary to his expectations, Phichit—quite undramatically—just rolled his eyes. “Fine, if you must—” he started, but upon seeing Yuuri’s expression, added exasperatedly, “it wasn’t weed! I don’t know what made you think that, honestly.”

“Well, I don’t really know what you, _senior_ figure skaters, get up to!” Yuuri retorted, his words a bit muffled by his still-full mouth.

Phichit levelled him with a look that showed how unimpressed he was. “Yuuri, we’re both of the same age. Stop acting like I’m some twenty-something retiree ready to regale you with tales from the senior figure skating circuit.” He cocked his head to the side. “Plus, it’s not like you’re not going to join me soon. This is your last competition before you join me, right?”

Yuuri felt himself deflate from that. Before, he had been so sure of continuing his figure skating career. Sure, it was bound to be harder—he would have to leave Japan to train, because traveling back and forth proved to be too exhausting already, not to mention the expenses, which he was sure would be more expensive this time. But, while those were no joke, he had no doubt that he was going to pursue the sport. His parents were the same. Despite money being tight and the stress from traveling with their son, they had one hundred percent support for him, because they knew it was what he truly wanted. There used to be no uncertainties regarding Yuuri’s future as a skater, that is, until his performance from earlier. Suddenly, after it, doubts flooded his mind. Should he really continue? Did he really deserve his parents’ support? Was he really worth it? Maybe Phichit would have to find another roommate, after all.

“I’m not really sure about that,” Yuuri answered weakly. He looked at his pretzel, which has now lost its warmth. The firmness of the bread was also gone, causing the then seemingly upright pretzel to droop down. It was like the pretzel was disappointed in Yuuri, looking down on him. Feeling petty, he took a large bite, despite its staleness.

“What do you mean? I thought we had a plan? With the dorms, the training, the competing—heck, even going to college!” Phichit said exasperatedly. He ran a hand through his hair, alarming Yuuri. The Thai boy, who prided himself of his impeccable and always picture-worthy appearance, only did that when he was anxious. “I thought you wanted us to do this together, Yuuri?” he added, looking forlorn.

The Japanese skater shook his head and flailed his hands, quite vigorously. “Yes—I mean, no—Um, I mean—I j-just . . .” he stuttered. Phichit probably thought that he didn’t want to pursue his career with the Thai boy anymore. While technically that was true, it wasn’t because he disliked the boy’s company or wanted to end their friendship, like what his friend had probably assumed. He tried to meet the boy’s waiting stare. “I’m thinking of quitting,” he said as an explanation.

“What?” Phichit said incredulously. “But you and Ciao Ciao seemed okay earlier, when I saw you two in the hallway?” he countered. “Plus, why on earth would you quit, Yuuri? You love the ice!”

That was true. Despite Yuuri’s worries, he really couldn’t deny how much he loved the ice, or figure skating. His passion for it was immense, taking him all over the world from a small town in Japan. It wasn’t just an interest or a hobby for him; it was his life. But that his love alone wasn’t enough to continue. He found it hard to look at his friend directly. “Yeah, but . . .” he started. “Maybe it doesn’t love me back, you know?” Yuuri replied, finally gathering the courage to meet his friend’s look. He smiled weakly, acknowledging his poor attempt at a joke.

Phichit stared at him for a while. A _long_ while. Hours of silence seemed to have stretched between them, causing Yuuri to fidget under the intensity of the Thai boy’s stare. He tried to look at his friend’s face for any sign of humor, or even anger, but there wasn’t any. Instead, all that was there was an overwhelming sense of disappointment.

“Is it because of your performance earlier?” Phichit finally asked.

Yuuri couldn’t find it in himself to deny it and instead, just lowered his gaze to the floor. He heard his friend sigh heavily. He braced himself.

“That’s so . . . ridiculous, Yuuri.” There it was—the confirmation that all of Phichit’s respect probably jumped off the window already. In spite of Yuuri knowing how loud and explosive his friend’s temper could get, it was the Thai skater’s silent disappointment that was most deadly. He had always been scared of it, especially considering his friend’s tendency for brutal honesty. Yuuri knew that when Phichit was disappointed in someone, that person really deserved it. While it had always felt bittersweet seeing Phichit ranting about his frustrations about others (because they were usually jerks), now he could see that being at the receiving end of it was just . . . _terrible_. Maybe there were better, more expressive words to describe how it felt, but Yuuri couldn’t think of any as of this moment. It was like he had been hugged by this large, dark shadow that blocked every sensation he had and filled his mind with an endless stream of _see what you’ve done now Phichit hates you you’re bad bad bad bad bad_ —

“Yuuri!” Phichit exclaimed, bringing the Japanese boy to his senses. It was that abyss again. He was in it again. He thought he had come out of it after his talk with Celestino earlier, but he was still there. For a dark and gloomy place that existed only in his imagination, it had the immense power of taking over his life, playing a joke on him by providing an illusion of being _okay_. 

The Thai looked at him, concern written on his face. His insides seemed to have shriveled up upon seeing this though. Clearly, he didn’t deserve it. “Yuuri, I’m sorry—I know you’re really worked up about this and I didn’t mean to . . . say that it’s stupid or anything,” Phichit apologized, his gaze to the floor while scratching the back of his head. Yuuri felt alarmed by this. _He shouldn’t be apologizing_. “It’s just you’re really good, and I think it’d be a waste if you didn’t continue your career.”

The Japanese skater couldn’t believe this. Was everyone blind? Did they not see how much he messed up during his performance? He only got a spot in the podium because of sheer luck? Could they not see that luck alone wouldn’t get him anywhere if he continued on? Why was everyone making him continue anyway? Don’t they see that he didn’t deserve their time, effort, and support—that he wasn’t a good investment, that he wasn’t good enough? _Luck_. What kind of skater depended on luck? Anyone could see how he could never be a world champion. If he were anything, he was a liar. _I’ll see you at the seniors. I’ll work hard. I’ll make you proud. I’m okay_. All of those were lies. Everyone backing him up should be pitied, really; they were supporting a fraud.

“. . . Yuuri?” Phichit called his name softly. It seemed that he had been silent for a while. He looked up. Phichit looked more worried that he had ever seen him before. This was unacceptable. The Thai skater shouldn’t be wasting more time on Yuuri’s pathetic concerns. So, he plastered the most genuine smile he could muster on his face, trying to alleviate his friend’s worries. It was the least that he could for Phichit. 

“You never did tell me where you were last night. I’ve been asking for the nth time, man. Give me some juicy details.” He said, plastering the most genuine smile he could muster on his face to alleviate his friend’s worries. It was the least that he could do for Phichit. Plus, pretending that he was okay was his best skill. If only he could make a career out of it, instead of figure skating.

Phichit seemed to buy it, returning Yuuri’s fake smile with a huge grin. “Fine. But don’t you dare judge me, okay?” he said, waving a finger at the Japanese boy. “I went to see the grilled monkeys.”

Yuuri felt his inner trouble become overpowered by the sense of confusion that just flooded over him. “W—what?” He didn’t really want to admit it, but his brain automatically conjured up images of Phichit doing different questionable activities last night. That had to be the cause of whatever his friend was saying, right?

“The grilled monkeys,” Phichit said, dropping his voice. His excitement, however, was evident despite his hushed tone.

“Is that some sort of Satanic ritual?” Yuuri asked, still confused. He groaned. “Oh my God. Please don’t tell me that’s a delicacy and that was your dinner last night.”

In return, Phichit looked offended, like a bird with its feathers ruffled. “The Grilled Monkeys, Yuuri,” he said, making it clear that he was talking about something other than roasted primates. “They’re a band.” Excitement dripped at the Thai boy’s every word. However, his hushed tone still confused Yuuri.

“A band? Then why are you talking as if they’re a huge secret or something?” the Japanese skater asked.

Phichit leaned closer, as if he was about to give away government secrets. The eagerness present in his face made him more like a crazed hermit offering conspiracy theories, though. “It’s because they are.”

“Why? Did Obama, Biden, Sanders, and Hillary Clinton finally form a reggae band?”

“Again, Yuuri, with the shit you say that don’t make sense.” Phichit gave him an unimpressed look. “They’re just this really obscure band that rarely holds shows, okay? But they announced one last night. Of course, I had to drop everything and see them.”

“What kind of amateur—” 

“How dare you! They’re _virtuosos_!”

“—musicians refuse to play shows? Wouldn’t they want an audience? I thought only Bieber or Kanye refuse to play for an audience.” It would’ve been easier to just accept Phichit’s hipster band, but seeing his friend be offended and _defend_ his “monkeys” distracted Yuuri from what he was going through. He knew Phichit understood this too, especially since he normally wouldn’t really pry or ask too much about his friend’s eclectic interests.

“I don’t know. They’re shy, I guess. Or busy. Maybe it’s part of their creative process,” Phichit said, shrugging. “They’re really good, though!” he said, suddenly perking up.

“If they’re really obscure, how did you hear of them? It sounds impossible for your roasted—”

“—grilled!”

“—monkeys to be active online, anyway,” Yuuri said.

“Well, Seung-gil recommended them to me,” Phichit said simply—too simply. He said it all with a breath of nonchalance, piquing Yuuri’s curiosity.

“Seung-gil, huh. Interesting,” he remarked, smirking at his best friend.

“Yeah, we became friends after the exhibition Ciao Ciao took me to in South Korea. Seung-gil performed there. You didn’t get to come, remember? You said you couldn’t leave because your grandma was visiting,” Phichit said. He shrugged casually—that is, the most casual he could get as if he didn’t just offer up unwarranted information while giving what seemed like a deliberately rehearsed shrug.

“Is he cute?” Yuuri asked, quirking one eyebrow. His best friend could be so predictable sometimes.

“W-what? Phichit said, flustered. “He’s attractive, I guess. I mean, he’s okay-looking.”

Yuuri snorted. “Okaaaay, whatever you say,” he sing-songed.

“Get your mind out of the gutter, Yuuri.” The Thai boy rolled his eyes. “Anyway, they’re supposed to be performing again tonight. Do you want to come with me?”

He grimaced inwardly. Even after all their banter, Phichit was still worrying over him. There was no doubt that his best friend will try to approach his topic again later that night. He knew how much the late-night conversations made him vulnerable to opening up. Still, he decided to take advantage of his friend’s distraction. “Sure. Will Seung-gil be there?” he said.

“Nah. He’s in Korea, studying for his finals.” Phichit replied, _casually_ looking at his nails, like it was a normal thing that he did. (It wasn’t.)

“Wow. So updated.” Seeing his friend’s glare, he added, “Won’t Ciao Ciao be angry if we go out tonight?”

“Have you seen the way Ciao Ciao look at Veronica?” Phichit asked, adding an especially malicious tone to the woman’s name. “I think he’s the one out tonight. Literally and figuratively. And I don’t even want to think about the cause behind the figurative sense.” He shuddered. “Anyway, we should get dinner before we head to the venue,” he suggested. Upon seeing Yuuri agree, he added, “Good. Since I bought you the pretzels, you should be the one to treat me for dinner.”

“I hope you like instant ramen from the convenience store,” Yuuri said dryly.

“Of course not!” Phichit replied, throwing his arm on the other boy’s shoulder. “It should be something healthy. We’re growing boys anyway. I prefer steak, medium rare.”

 

A dilapidated building with barred windows and broken light fixtures stood in front of Yuuri and Phichit. Adding to the place’s “charm” was the big, burly man with an angry expression in his face, blocking the door’s entrance. He crossed his arms in front of him and looked at Yuuri, scrutinizing him and his every detail from head to toe. It was as if he was challenging the Japanese boy to make a choice: stay and get hurt, or leave. Somehow, something told Yuuri that even taking the second option would lead to pain.

“You said you were going to take me to the underground,” Yuuri whispered furiously to his friend, who was, for some unknown reason, beaming brightly at the intimidating man in front of them. “I thought that’s some pretentious hipster café near the trains. But we’re in nowhere.” He subtly—avoiding extra movements to not be noticed by the man—cocked his head to the side, as if pointing to their surroundings. They were in a dark alleyway, with only a single streetlamp situated near the crossroad. Unfortunately, it was about twenty feet away from them. The other buildings didn’t offer any light either, as they were all closed. Granted, it was almost midnight. But Yuuri, despite his country upbringing, had been in enough cities to know that they never really sleep. Hence, he couldn’t help but feel that there was something sinister behind the closed shops. In fact, it really wouldn’t be a wonder if there were something sinister inside the closed shops. Noticing that there were only three of them in the entire stretch of the alley, he cursed his luck—he’d rather be back cleaning up after the inn alone instead of being here.

“Dude, this is it.” The Thai boy rolled his eyes and pointed upwards. There, Yuuri saw what seemed to be the ruins of a small marquee sign. None of its lights worked though, making it almost impossible to read it. Yuuri squinted his eyes. _The Underground_ , it read. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Phichit’s smug look. Okay, so they were in the “right” place, but that didn’t prevent all of his bodily instincts telling him to run towards safety. To make matters worse, he could still feel the man’s intense glare affixed on him, daring him to leave. He gulped audibly.

Phichit stepped forward towards the man. While every inch of Yuuri’s mind screamed to pull his friend back and run to Celestino, his body was paralyzed by his selfish need for self-preservation. _Sorry, Phichit_.

“Come on, baby,” Phichit said coolly, his arms spread open. “I just want to show my friend here the good stuff.” Smiling almost seductively at the man, he practically _slithered_ towards him. Yuuri, aside from being thoroughly creeped out, was panicking. “ _Baby_ ”? To be honest, Yuuri was scared of what Phichit was trying to pull him into. An influx of different scenarios popped into his head, which he refused to enumerate one by one in order to preserve his sanity. But, he promised himself: if this showed any semblance to being an orgy or a Satanic ritual, Phichit could go home alone.

He watched the man nod stoically and wave his hand, urging his friend to come closer. The boy in question walked—no, _sauntered_ —over the man and whispered to him. And giving Yuuri a sight that will scar him forever, the man returned his friend’s grin, only his seemed infinitely more menacing. He then lowered his head down and . . . _giggled_. The man fell to an uncontrollable fit of laughter, only it wasn’t as booming as one would normally associate for someone who looked like him. He was chuckling, with a few snorts coming up in between. Finally, he stopped, heaving in an effort to catch his breath. Terrifying Yuuri even more, the burly man put one hand on Phichit’s face, offering him what can only look like a loving gaze. Oddly, the gesture captivated Yuuri, causing him to take one step forward. At a closer look, he could see that there was no malice behind the man’s gaze; he seemed _maternal_ , even. Phichit yelped. The man had his cheeks in his hands, squeezing them tightly.

“Ah, Phichit,” he said, speaking for the first time in what Yuuri felt like was hours. “I’m not Molly. Trying to flirt won’t convince me that you’re 18.” He snorted. “Besides, it’s not like I’d bar you from entering just because you’re still underage. We’re offering music, not drugs or alcohol.”

“Ooh, so you’re letting me drink or do drugs when I turn eighteen?” Phichit asked, one eyebrow raised. The man slapped him behind the head hard, but it was clear that he meant to do it lightly.

“Oh shii—oot! Are you okay?” he asked the boy. “And no, that will never happen. You have to keep twirling on the ice—Molly loves it,” he added. Then, his look suddenly centered on Yuuri. “You kid.” He pointed to him, his expression back to its earlier darkness. “You’re sixteen too, right?” Behind him, Phichit tried to get his attention by nodding vigorously.

“Erm, no,” Yuuri confirmed, unable to lie to the man. “My birthday’s not until next week.” Phichit gave him a look that screamed, “Really?”

The man maintained his cold look on him, scrutinizing him. After what felt like infinity, his gaze softened. “Yuuri, right?” he asked. Maybe it was still the fear in his system or the dim lights, but he could swear that the man was smiling at him. He nodded. “Then consider this your advance birthday gift.” Dramatically, the man stepped aside and waved his hand towards the door. Looking at Phichit, “Hey, Yuuri, take care of your friend, okay? Make sure he doesn’t get into trouble.”

Yuuri was unable to reply, with Phichit dragging him into the building.

 

“’Baby’?” Yuuri hissed, pulling Phichit to a stop in the dark room that succeeded the entrance. “I mean, why were you even flirting with him? That’s just creep—like how old is he? Geez, Phichit, what are you getting up to?”

His friend seemed unfazed by his accusation, still having that cool smile on his face. It started to annoy Yuuri. While he had always been envious of Phichit’s antics, all of these just reached a whole level of craziness. “Yuuri,” Phichit crooned, using his pointer finger to poke the Japanese boy on the cheek playfully. “Number one, the flirting is kind of an inside joke, because Molly, his sister, lets everyone in when they bat their eyelashes at her. And you know, this is _The Underground_ —you can’t just let anyone in.” Yuuri grumbled an “okay” in response. Phichit brightened at that, and continued, “Two, he’s 18. And three, his name’s really Baby.”

“What?” Yuuri exclaimed, astonished. He wished he could think of more ridiculous things that he’s heard, but he really couldn’t.

His friend chuckled. “I know, it’s ridiculous. I found it funny at first, but trust me, with Baby, the joke will get old quickly.” His face might have been frozen into an expression of utter bewilderment because there was actual concern in Phichit’s eyes when the Thai boy poked his cheek again. “Earth to Yuuri?”

“Where. Are. We?” he gritted through his teeth. He had thought that the party or whatever Phichit was taking him to would have already been in full force when they came in, but there was nobody in the room that they were in. Looking around, the area looked nothing but a large abandoned house. It wasn’t large enough to be a mansion, but it looked like it was fancy enough to be. There were intricate arches that decorated that house’s columns—it had _columns_ , for heaven’s sake—and they had even more intricate carvings sculpted on them. Despite being mostly peeled off, the wallpaper was unmistakably expensive, detailed with a tiny embossed pattern of fleur-de-lis’s. There were no furniture or paintings in the room, but the scuff marks in the marble floor were proof that something heavy (and probably lavish) used to be placed atop of it. 

Now inside the house, Yuuri could see that it wasn’t as downtrodden as it looked like outside. In fact, it looked like its emptiness was only because it was waiting for its new owner. Kylie Jenner probably would’ve lived in a house like this, only if of course, the house was a hundred times cleaner. The floor, despite being made of expensive marble, has no doubt seen years since it was last dusted.

Looking up, he could see the large chandelier coming down from the ceiling, which was probably twenty feet up. It fell short only about a few feet away from his head. With the house’s state and its dilapidated structure, the chandelier could be very dangerous. However, Yuuri didn’t care. He stared, fascinated by the fixture’s curved form, akin to a spiral but without a clear beginning or end. It was probably no coincidence that it was placed directly beside the large windows that overlooked outside. Despite the windows barred with planks of wood, the moonlight managed to make its way in, reflecting off the glass (or crystal—he wasn’t really sure) chandelier. Yuuri was entranced.

“You weren’t listening to me, were you?” he heard Phichit say. He awakened from his daze, focusing his attention on his friend, who apparently had been talking the entire time. The Thai skater sighed. “I said that this expensive-ass house belongs to Baby and Molly, but they don’t really live here obviously, that’s why the place is so . . .” He looked around the room, pointedly at the thick layer of dust on the floors. “. . . uninhabited. They wanted to sell it, I think, but they couldn’t because of _The Underground_.” 

“This isn’t _The Underground_ but there’s a sign outside that said so!” Yuuri argued.

“Oh, that sign wasn’t originally a part of this place. Molly bought it from a garage sale, thought it was perfect for the place, and decided to put it up.” Ignoring Yuuri’s face, which had grown more confused, he continued, “Anyway, _The Underground_ is here, don’t worry.”

“Then where’s your monkeys?”

Phichit poked Yuuri’s cheek, like a mother trying to deal with a boisterous child. “In the basement, where _The Underground_ is. Seriously, Yuuri. Keep up.” Grabbing the Japanese boy by the hand, he pulled him towards an unlit corridor, running with the air of someone who had the place memorized like the back of his hand. Suddenly, he stopped in front of a door. Looking at his friend—who looked like a deer stuck in the headlights—and whispered excitedly, “This is it. Get ready.” Phichit knocked at the door, exactly eight times, with some sort of rhythm that Yuuri was too distracted to take note of. Clearly the password, the door swung open, revealing a disgruntled blond child.

Yuuri could see the bright neon lights of the party downstairs, and hear the thumping beat of the song playing. Excitement filled his system. However, it was clear that nothing would happen until they surpass the girl—or boy, he wasn’t sure—before them. “What?” the kid grumbled, with one hand on the door preventing their entry. It could’ve been an adorable sight, with the small child barricading the huge and thick door (which was probably the reason why the music didn’t escape the room), but the child’s aggressive stance rivaled Baby’s from earlier.

“Eh, who are you?” Phichit asked. Yuuri’s head almost spun with how fast he turned to his friend. If the Thai boy didn’t know the kid, then they were doomed.

“Who are you?” the kid retorted angrily.

“Yuri, stop bullying my patrons,” Baby said, appearing seemingly out of nowhere. Yuuri turned, but he heard the kid grumble, muttering what seemed like curse words under his breath. “Hey, stop that,” Baby reprimanded. “If you don’t, I’ll tell your grandpa his sweet grandson is being mean again.” _Grandson_?

“Yeah, piggy, what the hell do you think?” the boy shouted at Yuuri. Apparently, he had said that out loud. He stuttered, not even registering in his mind that he was doing so because of a child.

“Ah nothing!” he said, smiling weakly. Changing the topic, he added, “So y-your name is Yuri too, huh?” he said, smiling weakly. His mother always said he was good with children, so there he was, silently praying she was right. “My n-name is, uhm—”

“This guy’s name is Yuuri too. Cool, huh?” Baby butt in, no doubt taking pity on him. Yuuri looked at Phichit, who was watching the entire exchanged, amused.

“Maybe we should call you Yurio, little kid,” Phichit suggested, smiling at the blond boy. In response, Yurio became more disgruntled. 

“Screw that. There should can only be one Yuri in the ring,” he said, glaring at Yuuri. Baby stepped in and ruffled Yurio’s head.

“Look, Yurio—”

“—stop calling me that!”

“—let’s go, okay? Your grandpa is waiting for you.” He crouched down, looking at Yurio intently. Suddenly, he picked the child up and carried him over his shoulder, where he thrashed in protest. Uncaring about the tantrum happening in his arms, he looked at Phichit and Yuuri, gesturing towards the basement for them to enter.

Without Yurio blocking the way, he could finally witness _The Underground_ , and appreciate it in its entire glory. It wasn’t the party that he thought it would be; there were no rowdy teenagers holding red cups, nor were there anyone doing shots off each other. He had assumed that the air would smell of something illicit, but the only scent that wafted through the air was the blending of sweat, dust, and cologne. It truly differed from what television depicted.

For something that was meant to be exclusive (judging from the distance that they’ve walked and Baby’s deep scrutiny), the place was packed. There were people blocking the way, talking, as they went down the stairs, and they were even more in the basement itself. Others were sprawled near the walls, gathered in small groups, seemingly engaged in deep conversation. They paid no heed, though, to the large noisy crowd that has amassed at the middle, taking up majority of the space. The crowd danced to the beat of the music, the song’s vibrations effortlessly interpreted by each gyrating body. 

The song, which Yuuri didn’t recognize, slowed down, and the crowd’s dancing followed soon after. Someone changed the lighting, dropping its temperature to a warm rose. It shone over the crowd, highlighting each dancer, showing off their carefree smiles. Then, in its course to go over the entire room, it gleamed over those talking at the sides, illuminating their sparkling eyes as they went on talking. It was clear that everyone had a thing of their own going on, but the energy of the place was undeniably unanimous. _Freedom_. If this were exactly what _The Underground_ is about, then Yuuri wanted nothing but to be part of it.

“Damn,” Phichit commented as the song finally slowed down to a halt. “I think we’ve missed the Monkeys’ set. Sorry, Yuuri.” He looked disappointed.

He put one hand on his friend’s back as a comforting gesture. “Maybe we can stay and listen to the next act?” he suggested.

The boy _tsked_. “Baby told me that it’s Newbie Night. The Monkeys came back tonight to open up for the new crop.” He dropped his voice. “I can’t really guarantee that the newbie’s good. I’ve been here at some people’s first performances before, and they usually ended up to be their last. Sometimes talent just doesn’t match with vision, I guess. Or maybe they just had a bad day,” Phichit said, shrugging, as if he didn’t just give Yuuri a frightening reminder of what he had been trying to forget. Something heavy settled in his stomach.

“What if they’re good—better than your Monkeys?” Yuuri asked teasingly, swallowing the choking uneasiness that he felt.

“Then I guess we’ll have to come back for them, Yuuri. You’re part of my craziness now.” A small smile graced his friend’s face. “Plus, Ciao Ciao’s temper for us sneaking out will be spread between us two, so it won’t be too bad. It’s like, science,” he added conspiratorially.

The music was gone now and the lull in the crowd’s energy was evident. They resorted to talking to one another, but the slight awkwardness in their postures gave the idea that they were strangers in their initial conversation. However, that was all cut short when suddenly, all the lights in the place went out. Few cries were heard, including Phichit’s. Others stayed in silence, waiting.

The microphone’s screeching feedback pierced through the air, making Yuuri jump. He tried to look around, trying to find someone as uncomfortable as he was, but all he saw was darkness. He could feel the unifying feeling of tension in the air, however.

Then, one of the stage lights was turned on, showcasing a boy on the stage. He stood in front of the microphone, not acknowledging the turned-up eyebrows or the interested oohs from the audience. Instead, he focused on the electric keyboard beside him, on which his laptop was balanced precariously on. 

The room was completely silent now, and even without looking at the others, Yuuri could feel everyone’s undivided attention on the boy. He was, after all, the night’s main course. But, it wasn’t the audience’s usual sort of interest that teetered mainly on waiting for the newbie to mess up. _No_. Even this was Yuuri’s first time in _The Underground_ , he could feel something else—something _purer_ —layer the room’s spirit of anticipation. _Excitement_. The entire room was holding their breaths for this boy, and he hasn’t done anything else except stand in front and press a few buttons.

The boy, with his silver hair and pale skin, exuded a preternatural beauty. He didn’t have the kind of beauty that was merely pure aesthetics; his was the kind that radiates, and conjures up _magic_ —magic that had the capability to affect and envelop a person, settling down in the deepest nooks and crannies of their beings. It seemed to be a plague that influenced one’s innermost core. Truly, the boy was powerful, and Yuuri knew that he, alongside everyone else, has submitted himself already.

He had a brief fleeting thought that maybe there must be some illegal chemical in the air, because this wasn’t rational. There was no logic on how everyone was stripped off of cynicism and hostility, and reduced to meek waiting subjects. However, he was betrayed by his own body, screaming, and making itself known. If he focused his attention to the wild, erratic beating of his heart, and the loud, dull ringing in his ear, he could hear his entirety telling him to keep his attention on the boy. It felt right to do so, now that he thought about it. Sure, it was silly, but he couldn’t help but think that it was like he had been made for it.

Yuuri Katsuki has always believed in that everything that existed and happened was all in accordance to a giant plan written by the combined forces of fate and the universe. The mistakes you’ve done, the people you’ve had—they’re all just little rests and notes that composed the song of your existence. However, this strange silver-haired boy seemed different. He had no idea who this boy was, but he knew that this boy wasn’t going to be part of his song. He was going to _sing_ it.

A sound that reminded Yuuri heavily of both a gunshot and a scream penetrated the silence. The silver haired boy pressed a few buttons, changing the lights’ color to a deep blue and filling the room with an eerie track. As he bopped his head to the music, he pressed more, adding beats to the song he was playing and making it louder. The crowd, still silently engrossed, started to move. Their motion was almost uniform, following the boy’s music intently. He was the Pied Piper, and they were the mice.

The music got louder, creating stronger vibrations. In return, the audience’s reaction became more intense, with more people just _losing_ themselves to the music. Hesitations, inhibitions—they seemed to be all abandoned, as they danced freely. Their freedom, however, was a lie, since they all seemed to be ultimately controlled by the boy’s ministrations.

“ _Now, now, now, now_ ,” the boy whispered to the microphone. He must have been layering each word on top of one another, because every mention of it grew louder and stronger. His deep baritone voice, a bit distorted because of the reiterations, reverberated throughout the room, filling it. Yuuri suddenly felt annoyed, as if he was being disenfranchised by not hearing the boy’s real voice. Embarrassment rose up within him soon after, and—

The music’s volume suddenly decreased.

“ _Now a wind . . . now a voice it carries . . . you know the one this time_.”

Oh.

“ _Now a breath . . . now a name I’m calling . . . yours is the one this time_.”

With his fingers dancing across his laptop and his keyboard, the boy gave a small smile, as he was amused by a secret he was keeping. Yuuri felt a gnawing need within him to discover it.

“ _We are the ones this time_ ,” the boy continued singing, repeating it over and over again. This became the song’s pattern, as if on loop. However, despite its repetitive nature, it echoed throughout the room and gave more fuel to the people’s energy. The crowd’s spirit intensified further.

The song’s lyrics didn’t make much sense to Yuuri, though. _We are the ones_. “Ones who what”, he wondered. Whatever they did seemed important though, or at least he thought they were. The enigmatic boy looked like he was destined to do important things, anyway, like saving the world or cure cancer. The “we” was a question he also wanted to ask. Whoever helping the boy in whatever he did was probably the luckiest person in the world, in Yuuri’s opinion. It was selfish, not to mention highly illogical, but he felt a sudden drive to be the only one else comprising that “we”.

Yuuri sighed. The day has probably finally taken its final toll on him, because he was losing his mind. He was enamored by this stranger, and the raw magic that he exuded. Out of the blue, he was reminded of the chandelier that he stared at earlier. Similar to the way the chandelier reflected the moonlight and turned it into something even more beautiful, the boy had the power to string along random words and notes and turn it into _something great_. His taste wasn’t refined enough for him to be confident in saying that the boy’s work was a masterpiece, but it has both shaken and stilled Yuuri’s core, creating an impact matched by nothing. Well, _almost_ nothing. The last time he felt like this was when he was five and discovered the world of figure skating.

Skating. It used to be his greatest joy. Now, he was scared that all he’d think about in the rink was how pathetic he was. He desperately wanted to get his love back for it though, and remove himself from the dark pit that he was buried in. He wanted to step into the ice and feel free again, like he did when he was young. He wanted his home back.

But wanting too much was dangerous. He had wanted to win so badly, so he trained extensively, traveling across the world. Now all he has to show for were a (consolatory) bronze medal, more financial trouble for his parents, and Vicchan gone. He had wanted to prove himself too much, and all he got was the bitter taste of disappointment.

Without warning, clarity washed over him. _He wanted this boy too_. It wasn’t as if he wanted to abduct the boy and take him apart, like in an episode of Law and Order. As much as his pride demanded him to deny it, he wanted to get to know the boy and dissect how his mind worked. He wanted to see how he creates, and be a part of the ones he sang about. He wanted to become the boy’s equal. 

The song finally ended, and it took around half a second for the people to get out of their stupor to applaud the boy. The small smile he had earlier still graced his face, and he kept it as he nodded politely to his audience gratefully. His composure changed, however, when his gaze landed on Yuuri. It might’ve been only the Japanese boy’s imagination, he swore that the silver-haired boy’s eyes (which were a shocking shade of blue) brightened when they landed on him. Maybe his awestruck face still hadn’t reverted to normal unlike the others, so he tried to school his face into a neutral expression, hoping it would deter the boy’s sudden attention. It didn’t.

The silver-haired boy leaned over his microphone. “Cessa,” he said. He was still staring at Yuuri, grinning mischievously as if he was sharing one of his biggest secrets. “My name is Cessa.” The crowd burst into another applause with that, getting even wilder when Cessa winked. Yuuri knew that it wasn’t directed towards the group though; it was for him. Only him.

Odd.

As Cessa walked off the stage, he found himself silently challenging the silver-haired boy, and in the process, also himself: the next time he saw Cessa, he was going to be like him.

Yuuri Katsuki was going to be _something great_ again.

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS INCREDIBLY LONG brace yourselves:
> 
> Now onto the long rant:
> 
> 1) This is unbeta’d, so mistakes are all mine (especially the copious amounts of dashes and commas). I tried my hardest to fix formatting issues, though :)
> 
> 2) I know nothing about music, music production, songwriting, figure skating, underground (hipster—do people still even use that word?) hangouts, hipsters in general, and Detroit. Everything that you have just witnessed here is an exercise of imagination and the gross appropriation of creative license.
> 
> 3) I haven’t written fiction in two years. Haven’t finished a story in four. The last time I did, it was over in ten thousand words and had thirteen chapters (I don’t know actually how I did that too). So, this is an experiment of sorts, trying to gauge how my writing is now. I didn’t expect to reach 8k for one chapter and waste your time by evading the point. Speaking of evading the point, the entire reason I droned on and on about Yuuri’s troubles and Phichit’s shenanigans was because I was avoiding writing Victor’s scene. (Guess who’s scared to mess it up—pretty sure I still did, but idon’thavetheenergytogiveanymore.)
> 
> 4) This may be a bit OOC, I think? Victor may be too brooding in this, Yuuri too troubled (and a bit snarky) and Phichit too wild. I’ve intended this to be some sort of prequel to a story in which Yuuri and Victor end up together and have ten Makkachins (because let’s face it: they’re meant to be in all universes out there) so maybe their personalities will be more attuned to canon once they’ve gotten older in this universe, heh.
> 
> 5) I’ve plotted this, so I’ll try my hardest to finish this already. There are probably two more shorter chapters to go, but I’m an incredibly slow writer so please bear with me.
> 
> 6) This is my first work in the YOI fandom so if I missed anything, please don’t hesitate to tell me. (I wrote the Veronica part before watching the finale and seeing that Leroy’s female coach was his mom. HAHAHA STUPID ME. Let’s just imagine that before that Leroy had a really pretty coach who was, conveniently, also single.)
> 
> Tl;dr: I am so sorry for this, I’ll try to update as fast as I can, and feedback is appreciated! :)


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